The Burning of a Heart
by TellAllTheTruth
Summary: Moriarty kidnaps Molly in a plot to destroy Sherlock from the inside out. Definitely a Sherlock/Molly storyline. Set post-Hounds-of-the-Baskervilles but pre-Reichenbach-Fall (I'm pretending there is a lot of time in between those in which to set a story). If you're interested, you'll have to read the first chapter to find out more!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Breathing a sigh of relief, Molly dropped the last of the files into her outbox. She stepped back and slowly twisted to the side, cracking what seemed to be every vertebra in her spine. John watched her as she did this, the relief visible on his face as well. Four straight days of plowing through medical files, analyzing scraps of evidence that had led to nowhere, and having what Molly secretly referred to as "crisps for lunch" (in reality takeout Chinese food eaten at the desk while Sherlock paced furiously, seeming to survive on air and knowledge alone). But their hard work had finally paid off. Lestrade was accompanying Sherlock to arrest Melissa Finch, the accountant who Sherlock had definitively proved had poisoned her billionaire boss.

The news vans screeched away, following the sound of police sirens and the pale detective, just as they had been doing since Sherlock's name had begun appearing in the newspapers.

Not that the detective had even acknowledged Molly before tying on his scarf and striding away, leaving only silence in his wake. Lestrade had mouthed a quick "thank you" before hurrying to catch up to Sherlock.

Oh well. It's not like Molly wasn't used to all this.

Unfortunately, John had still not gotten used to it and felt the need to apologize the pathologist at every turn from Sherlock's blatant disregard for any kind of social mores. Turning to Molly, he now said,

"Thank you so much, Molly, we couldn't have done it without you. Sherlock knows that too, he just…" He trailed off, because there was nothing more to be said. Molly smiled brightly even though all she wanted to do was to take the longest, hottest shower of her life and sink into dreamless sleep on the freshly laundered sheets waiting for her at home.

"It's okay, John, we've all learned to adjust our expectations when dealing with Sherlock. But you should be proud of yourself too; you tracked down the tax records that really helped everything fall into place."

John shrugged modestly, the fabric of his familiar grey jumper straining against his shoulders as he slowly rotated his neck to work out all the kinks. He then smiled and asked,

"So do you want to grab something to eat? I know you're beat, but you need to get some food into you before you pass out where you stand."

"No, thanks, I think I'm just going to tidy up here and then catch a cab home. In the war between sleep and hunger, I think sleep is going to win this round. But you go home, get some rest. Don't worry about me."

John nodded and didn't try to argue, fighting the own fog in his brain. He said goodbye and disappeared through the swinging door. The emptiness and silence of the pathology lab now really echoed in Molly's brain, but she ignored it and went on tidying everything up, making sure all the chemicals were in alphabetical order and wiping down the frozen section machine one last time. After days of frenetic energy, these kind of mind-numbing tasks were suddenly comforting and soothing. She started to daydream, letting her mind wander over the events of the last half-week. One side of her mouth quirked up at the memory of John trying to explain to a very impatient Sherlock, hair sticking up on end, what the show _The Bachelor _was and why certain women (Melissa Finch included) were obsessed with it. A quiet laugh bubbled up in her throat as she remembered Sherlock's response: "And these women subject themselves to this rubbish of their own free will?!"

"I didn't realize that lab equipment was so amusing, Miss Hooper" a familiar, sing-songy voice said quietly from behind her. Molly's heart plummeted and her veins turned to ice. Praying that she was wrong, she turned slowly around.

She was not wrong, a fact that she would come to particularly lament in the next few days.

James Moriarty stood before her, watching her lazily. His suit was perfectly pressed, and there was even a handkerchief folded neatly in the breast pocket. But it wasn't the clothes that Molly was focusing on in numbed terror, but the eyes that were observing her every move. How could she have ever thought those eyes had been warm? Sharks expressed a wider range of human emotion than the psychopath before her.

"Molly, dear, is that any way to great an old friend? Come, it's been such a long time, let's go for a little drive and catch up on everything." He held out the crook of his arm, apparently deadly serious on her accompanying him. Fear surged through her, breaking through the numbness, and her breathing increased rapidly as her eyes darted around, searching for some, any way out of this nightmare.

Moriarty clucked his tongue.

"Oh Molly, if you think there is a way out, you underestimate your old beau. Now, come along like a good girl and we will go say goodbye to Nurse Lara upstairs together. I told her that I needed to borrow her locker to store some surprise flowers and chocolate for my _sweetheart_" (with this phrase he glanced coyly at Molly) "and being the sweet woman she is, she agreed. If we go say goodbye to her now, I _might_ be persuaded to remove the detonation devices that are now planted in her locker and counting down as we speak. Now not another word from you, Molly dear, we've got lots to do and very little time in which to do it."

Molly swallowed hard. So this was it. She silently wished she was Sherlock, who would have come up with eight different plans in the time that Moriarty was delivering his monologue, but she had just stood, rooted to the ground. Moriarty once again held up his arm, more insisting this time, his fathomless eyes drilling into hers. She shakily took it, praying that someone, anyone, would notice something was wrong. They walked out of the room, and the door swung shut, and the only sound that could be heard in the lab was the slow, even tick of the clock overhead as the shadows in the empty room deepened in the wake of the setting sun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Unfortunately, no one noticed anything out of the ordinary. Lara Stiles, whose locker contained the explosive devices, had merely winked at Molly and mouthed "have fun!" as the pathologist and Moriarty walked past the nurses' station. Molly cursed her lack of close friendship with anyone in the hospital. It would have taken Sherlock half a second to realize that something was seriously wrong with her.

Well, in Sherlock's case, it would have been based on his freakishly accurate powers of observation rather than friendship, but still.

A black car with tinted windows was idling outside the hospital's automatic doors. Molly glanced once more around, but with Moriarty's hand like a vice on her arm, there was no chance. Moriarty opened the rear door of the car for her, acting every inch the gentleman, and Molly reluctantly settled into the cushioned seat of the back row. As Moriarty slid in beside her, casually adjusting his tie, the car glided away. Glancing back at the hospital, an awful thought suddenly crossed Molly's mind.

"The explosives! Nurse Lara! You never did anything about them!"

Moriarty chuckled.

"Oh Molly, if only everyone were as gullible as you. Do you honestly think that I would risk my entire operation by doing something as unnecessary as that? Don't get me wrong, I am flattered by what you consider to be the depths of my criminal genius, but there was no need to do anything more than threaten one of your acquaintances. Good lamb that you are, you came right away. I really expected more of you, to be honest, Molly. Emancipated female pathologist who spends time with the likes of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and not even a peep out of you."

This last remarked smarted more than Molly wanted to let on, because she had been berating herself for the same thing since the moment she took Moriarty's arm. Moriarty himself was now observing the houses sliding by and appeared to have nothing more to say for now. Molly miserably stared out the other window, wondering how long it would take for anyone to notice her absence.

As if reading her thoughts, Moriarty reached at and patted her knee. At the contact, Molly shuddered, and Moriarty's smirk widened.

"Don't worry, Molly dear, they will notice soon enough. And then the fun will begin."

xxx

John was in a foul mood. He had come home, expecting peace and quiet, and discovered Sherlock playing Bartók's "Sonata for a Solo Violin." Dropping his jacket irritably on the couch, John turned to face the detective who, as usual, was ignoring his presence.

"It wouldn't have killed you to thank Molly, you know. She's not getting paid for any of this and even you had to notice how hard she was working over the last three days. I don't know how she stands to be around you. Hell, sometimes I don't understand how _I _can stand to be around you."

Without bothering to look at John, the detective replied,

"She was just doing the job she was trained to do. I don't tend to thank people for doing what they are supposed to do. Honestly, John, I don't know what's gotten into you."

John threw up his hands in defeat.

"Sherlock. I've not slept properly in over a week, I am hungry enough to eat my Aunt Mary's awful Christmas fruitcake, and I am not going to argue with you. But mark my words: you take Molly for granted and one of these days you are going to regret that."

With these parting words, John retreated into his bedroom. Strains of the violin sonata drifted through the thin walls as Sherlock resumed his playing. Although he was just as tired as he had been a few minutes ago, John found himself unable to sleep after throwing himself, fully-clothed, onto his bed. Fragments of questions floated through his brains, questions that he had often thought about before but seemed once again to be pressingly relevant. How could Sherlock care so little about the people who helped him the most? How could he do that to Molly, who had never been anything but kind to all of them? Not for the last time that night, John wondered if his friend was human.

Long after the time John's eyes finally closed, the violin music stopped. Sherlock sat silently in the dark of the living room and watched the constellation of Andromeda, barely visible in the light pollution of London, drift infinitesimally across the night sky.

xxx

Many, many hours later the car containing Molly and Moriarty slowed and turned into a driveway. Gravel crunched under the tires as the outline of a low, sprawling building was thrown into relief by the headlights of the car. Molly had spent the entire ride in the same rigid sitting position, praying to a God she didn't know she believed in that someone, anyone would come and help her. Moriarty now turned to her.

"Come in and see your rooms, Molly. I even had them newly painted, just for you, yellow like you like. You see, I do feel bad that you have to be a pawn in all of this, but it was the only I could get into the stubborn bastard's head. Oh well."

Dear God, this man was truly unhinged. Molly wondered idly if she'd become a dentist like her father if any of this would have occurred. Probably not, but too late for that now.

They entered the house and in the darkened rooms Molly got a sense of crumbling opulence, as if this building had once been a great manor house and was now falling to wrack and ruin. Her own "rooms" as Moriarty had called them, had been very recently cleaned and dusted, and as Moriarty flicked on the light, Molly could see that the walls were indeed painted her favorite shade of pale yellow and trimmed with cream, although cracks were still visible underneath the fresh coats of paint. One of the upsides, she supposed, of briefly dating a genius psychopath was that minor details such as one's favorite color would not go unnoticed.

"Go to sleep, Molly, everything will be explained in the morning."

And with that he was gone, locking the door behind him. She looked around her and, ignoring the massive four poster bed occupying one side of the room, sank onto the window seat. Though the view was partially blocked by iron bars that prevented her from escaping, she could still see some of the landscape. She stared out into the night sky, searching for answers from the stars.

_Please_, she whispered, _help._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Molly awoke the next morning with an overwhelmingly painful stiffness in her neck. Wincing, she rose from the window seat where she had dozed fitfully the night before. Her dreams had been unusually vivid and exhausting, like the fever dreams she had a child, and she seemed to be twice as tired as she had been the day before. As she looked around her, memories of all that had transpired in the last twenty-four hours crashed over and she dropped her head into her hands.

She was teetering on the edge of a full-on breakdown when out of nowhere her father's voice appeared in her mind. Although her father had been an unassuming man, he was also a font of unexpected wisdom; the depth of his quiet remarks was often only realized years later.

As a child, Molly had wanted to play the clarinet. Her mother, having studied piano seriously through university, signed her up for lessons. Six-year-old Molly quickly discovered how hard it was to find the discipline to practice every day, and often complained to her father how she "couldn't" practice as hard as the other kids because it was an impossible task. Once her father had interrupted her griping and said,

"One day, Molly-bug, you'll figure out that the mind and soul are amazing gifts in that they can expand and rise to meet any challenge you throw at them."

He had said this quietly, almost to himself, but the phrase had stuck with Molly and it floated now to the front of her mind as she sat mired in the hardest challenge she had ever faced. Thinking about her father, Molly unconsciously straightened her back and tightened her jaw. Right. Moriarty was not going to catch her sniveling and crying. If people like her father could battle life-threatening illness with dignity and good humor, if people like John could make it through hell and back in Afghanistan, then she could face whatever was waiting for her on the other side of the locked bedroom door, damn it.

She dug her fingernails into her palms, waiting for the door to open.

xxx

Back on Baker Street, John awoke not much more rested than Molly. His own dreams had been laced with incredibly vivid memories of firefights in Afghanistan, comrades falling left and right and an overwhelming sense of panic threatening to choke him. He had awoken in the middle of the night, tangled in sweaty sheets, certain that he was going to die. Although he had managed to drift back off to sleep after that, he had awoken again just as the first rays of sun were streaking into his bedroom. Abandoning all hope of sleep at that point, he shuffled into the kitchen to make the first of what he suspected would be many cups of coffee that day. A note from Sherlock was taped to the coffee machine.

"Call Molly and tell her I need her to analyze tissue samples. Double murder in East End."

John stared at the note for a while before deciding that he was going to let the poor woman have a day of rest before sending her off on another investigation with Sherlock. She had earned that much.

xxx

The door opened slowly and Moriarty walked into the bedroom. He stopped at the sight of a haggard Molly and frowned.

"Molly, you look simply awful. I took the liberty of getting you new clothes so that you don't have to continue wearing your current…outfit." He stared dubiously at the comfortable shirt and practical pants that Molly sometimes wore during particularly hectic times at the lab. "But your appearance can be dealt with later. Come, breakfast is ready in the main dining room."

Molly followed Moriarty through the maze of halls, reminding herself with every step to keep steel in her spine. Moriarty finally led her through an elaborately carved doorway into a room that made it seem like eighteenth-century extravagance had never gone out of style. The ceiling was ten meters high at least, and scalloped mouldings looped and swirled into curving foliage patterns. The chandelier hanging from the exact center of the room was dripping with crystals, which seemed to wink at Molly in the late morning sunshine streaming in from the heavily curtained French windows overlooking a sweeping lawn. Molly squinted at the woods visible at the edge of the property, trying to get any kind of bearing of where she was.

Moriarty shook his head exasperatedly, smirking.

"No, no, Molly, it's no use, we're dozens of kilometers from anyone, don't even think about it. But this place is not the main focus. No, the guest of honor is you, Molly Hooper."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. I haven't revealed to you the intricate workings of my dastardly plan. But you will figure it out soon enough. In the meantime, breakfast awaits."

Molly had not even noticed the food on the enormous oak table in the middle of the room. There was enough to feed half of London – scones, clotted cream, bacon, eggs, hash, fruit, at least eight different types of rolls, biscuits. She sat down at one of the place settings and began to serve herself everything within reach, suddenly aware that she couldn't remember the last time she ate a substantial meal. Moriarty watched her with amusement.

"See, it wouldn't do to have anyone accusing me of starving you. I am sure Sherlock will want to do enough damage to me as it is for daring to steal his pet pathologist away from him."

Molly set down the roll smeared with butter and jam that she had been devouring at the mention of Sherlock's name. Would Sherlock really want to destroy Moriarty for kidnapping her?

She wasn't even certain that he would notice she was gone.

xxx

"Did you talk to Molly? I told you to call her ages ago!"

Sherlock's voice rang out irritably through the tiny apartment. John rolled his eyes and said

"First of all, you didn't "tell" me, you left a note practically ordering me to call her. Second, I thought that she deserved a rest after everything you put her through in the accountant case. Third, I think she's at work and it wouldn't be right to disturb…"

Too late. Sherlock was already on the phone calling Molly's lab. When no one answered, he angrily waited for the call to be transferred to the nurses' station. John listened to the one-sided conversation from the other room.

"Yes, I need to speak to Molly Hooper. No, immediately. Yes, I _do_ mind being put on hold. She's not in today? Did she call in sick? This is Sherlock Holmes, that's who, and I demand an explanation. She left early yesterday? With…"

Everything went silent. Two, three minutes went by without any sense of movement from the other room. Curious, John looked up from the paper he was reading as the detective walked slowly into the kitchen, and then froze. Unadulterated violence was carved into every line of Sherlock's face and his wintry eyes blazed into John's.

"The bastard's got her. Got Molly."

"Who's got her? What are you talking about, Sherlock?!"

"Moriarty."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

John sat in shocked silence as the weight of Sherlock's words sank in.

"_The bastard's got her. Got Molly."_

No, it couldn't be true. Not Molly. Anyone but Molly. John pictured the pathologist peering into her microscope at a sample of blood as Sherlock hovered in the background, waiting for the results. Dressed up at the Christmas party, bringing in presents. Molly. No, it couldn't be true.

"How do you know, Sherlock? Don't mess around with me!"

"You think I'd joke about something like this? A certain Nurse _Lara_" (Sherlock practically spat the name) "says that she saw Molly leave the hospital yesterday with her 'old boyfriend Jim.' She did say it seemed rather odd that Molly had never mentioned getting back together but, being the stupid woman that she is, didn't bother to put two and two together."

John decided not to comment on Sherlock's excessive upbraiding of Nurse Lara. There were more pressing matters at hand.

"Are you sure she isn't just at home? Maybe the nurse was mistaken, maybe it wasn't Moriarty she was with."

"Although I am in no way indulging your small-minded notions, we need to go to Molly's flat. I'm sure _he's _left something there, this would be just the kind of game he would play."

John grabbed his jacket and they raced down the stairs. As they screeched off in the car, John glanced over at Sherlock. His friend was rigid, staring straight ahead, concentrating all his energy on figuring out angles, possible leads, motivations. Aside from giving curt directions to John to get them to Molly's building, Sherlock didn't say a word. Although John had been working on cases with Sherlock for longer than he sometimes cared to remember, he had never seen the detective like this. Usually the detective would be gleeful about the appearance of a new, interesting case. This was, after all, the man who joyfully celebrated the discovery of a serial killer with a whoop of "there's always something to look forward to!"

But not today. The involvement of one of the few people in the world that Sherlock seemed to even remotely care about was enough to change the joy to rage. The deaths of anonymous victims was something to be celebrated, an intellectual challenge for the world's only consulting detective, but this time it was no game.

In less than fifteen minutes they screeched to a halt outside Molly's building. An old pre-war building, the façade was peeling slightly after decades of winter rain and summer heat, but it was still a handsome structure. Not bothering to wait for John, Sherlock got out of the car and strode into the building. Following the detective up the stairs, John wondered briefly how Sherlock knew which flat was Molly's.

By the time he walked through door whose doorbell was labeled "Hooper," Sherlock was already standing in the middle of Molly's sitting room. John, who had never seen Molly's flat before, looked around to gain his bearings. The flat was very neatly kept, with few of the knickknacks that landladies like Mrs. Hudson seemed to keep around. A comfortable armchair and sofa were arranged around a well-swept fireplace, and there were shelves and shelves of books on every wall. A tiny kitchen with a stove and refrigerator was visible through a doorway to the right, and two closed doors were on the left, presumably the bathroom and Molly's bedroom. John had no idea where to begin.

Sherlock spoke in clipped syllables. "Search everything. I don't know what we're looking for, but I'll know it when I see it."

And search they did. They went through every drawer in the sitting room, looked under the desk and even ripped open the cushions of the armchair. A search through the cupboards in the kitchen proved to be fruitless, and the medicine cabinet yielded no clues. John was about to ask, exasperatedly, how Sherlock knew that Moriarty even been here and left a clue, when Sherlock barked from the bedroom,

"I've found it."

John hurried in to see his friend with an open photo album in his hands. Pictures of Molly, her friends, and her family were visible on both the open pages. She was happily smiling in almost all of them, arms slung around her university friends and various relatives. She was radiant.

In all but one of the photos.

In the middle photo on the right-hand page, Molly was standing in what appeared to be a clearing in a forest, dressed in jeans and a loose jumper. She was leaning against an enormous oak tree, but it wasn't the tree that John noticed first. It was the fact that Molly was missing her head.

Her head had been neatly snipped out of the photo, and in the space left behind, there appeared to be some words scribbled. John moved closer, squinting to read the miniscule print.

In cramped script, the message read "Oh what a good boy am I."

Baffled, John turned to Sherlock. The detective was also staring at the words, thinking furiously, before he snapped the photo album shut and strode out of the room.

"Sherlock! Wait! What does it mean?!"

"Shut UP, John! I'm trying to think!"

Through the doorway, John watched Sherlock hunch forward in Molly's armchair, fingers pressed to his temples. After about ten minutes of silence, John suddenly gasped.

"Little Jack Horner!"

"John, what are you babbling on about?"

"Little Jack Horner! The nursery rhyme! You know 'Little Jack Horner/sat in a corner/eating a Christmas pie/He put in his thumb/and pulled out a plum/ and said "What a good boy am I!' You mean you never heard that as a child?"

"I never wasted my time with childish things. But that does seem to fit. I wonder…" he trailed off and then abruptly stood and walked out of the flat. Realizing that his friend was not going to invite him to come with him, John followed him out, carefully shutting the front door of the flat behind him. He then raced down the stairs after the echoes of Sherlock's footsteps.

xxx

Moriarty had watched the last few minutes play out on a security camera screen. The camera he had placed in the upper corner of Molly's sitting room had gone unnoticed by both men in their desperation to find Molly, and Moriarty had therefore been able to watch the entirety of the antics. He was rather disappointed that it had been Watson, and not Holmes, who had solved the first part of the clue, but there was plenty more fun to be had later. He chuckled to himself and went to go find Molly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**: Thank you all for the positive reviews! It is very encouraging and I will definitely keep writing. For this section, I just want to mention that I know Mells Manor in Somerset is currently occupied by the Earl of Oxford and Asquith, but in my universe Moriarty managed to get ahold of it, at least temporarily, for his nefarious plans. I will try not to bend reality too much after this.

**Chapter 5**

Steam wreathed the bathroom where Molly had sunk up to her eyeballs in hot, sudsy water. Using a toe her toe to turn on the hot water spigot, she mused over the problem that had been preoccupying her for the last hour: how to escape.

Molly had never considered herself to be a brave person. She belonged more to the group of people who came after the crisis, attending to wounds and helping clean up; it had never occurred to her to be the one leading the charge. But it had been almost a full twenty-four hours since she had been kidnapped and she was beginning to feel that it was up to her to help herself. Stepping out of the bath and wrapping herself in the fluffy towel hung over the rack next to claw-footed bathtub, she took a deep breath to steady herself and finalize her plan.

Moriarty had come by about an hour ago and instructed her to take a bath and change into the clothes he had bought her. He had indicated the security cameras visible in every corner of her room and told her that if she tried to do anything at all, she would be very sorry. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a loose sweater that lay draped over the chair of her desk and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Her one advantage, she had decided, lay in surprise and the several classes of self-defense she had taken over the years. Her mother, scared about her daughter moving to a big city, had insisted she take a self-defense class before beginning university. Molly had found that, though she wasn't the most naturally talented student, she enjoyed the sense of mastery and security she got whenever she completed a particular move, and had continued to take classes. Though it had been several years since her last instruction, it was her only shot.

When Moriarty entered the room about fifteen minutes later, he found Molly staring out the window, seemingly oblivious to everything but the wind whipping over the grass outside.

"Still waiting for your friends to come?"

She turned, looking shaky.

"Yes."

He took a couple of steps towards the window and stared down his nose at her.

"You might be waiting an awfully long time."

She swallowed. It was now or never.

"You might be right."

With that she drove an open palm into his chin. His head snapped back and, not giving him any time to recover, she drove her knee into his stomach and fled. She ran past room after room, looking for an exit, when suddenly the entire house seemed to be filled with the footfalls of heavy boots. She panicked. Of course there were other people in the house, guards probably, and ran faster. But rounding a corner, she ran into a giant of a man, dressed all in black and carrying a walkie-talkie. There was a struggle, and though she fought with everything she had, an elbow smashed into her right eye, making her see stars and go dizzy. She was dragged by the man back to her room, where Moriarty was standing, cool and collected, as if nothing had happened. He was holding a gun and gazed steadily at the two of them. The guard shoved her into the room and turned to Moriarty.

"You want us to do anything about her?"

"No, just leave us alone here for the present."

The guard retreated, muttering into his walkie talkie. Molly stared at Moriarty, the beginnings of a splitting headache forming in her temples. Moriarty, to her surprise, began to laugh.

"Who knew you had it in you, Molly Hooper? A spark like that. I commend you. But" and with this word his smile dropped and he advanced on her as she shrank back "I warn you, if you ever try something like that again I will kill everyone you love and make your life a living hell. Do I make myself clear?"

His gaze bored into her, and she swallowed and nodded.

"Good."

Without another word he swept out of the room, locking the door with a resounding click. Molly collapsed where she was and began to cry. Her head throbbed, her right shoulder ached and every time she breathed she could feel bruises on her ribs. She cried until there were no more tears and then dragged herself into the bed and fell asleep, exhausted.

Far away, but getting closer every second, a car raced from London towards the manor.

xxx

After John had blurted out the nursery rhyme, Sherlock had raced back to the car. Instructing John to head west, the detective had called Lestrade and told him to send police cars to Mells Manor in Somerset. John looked over at him, bewildered.

"Somerset? What are you talking about?"

"Isn't it obvious, John? The nursery rhyme that you recited is based on a story that in the sixteenth century, the abbot of Glastonbury sent the deeds of a dozen manors to King Henry the VIII, hoping that his own monastery would be spared in exchange. However, his assistant, Thomas Horner, who was supposed to deliver the pie, took it upon himself to remove the deed to one of the manors: Mells Manor in Somerset. That's where Moriarty is, and that's where Molly is."

"Hang on a second. Isn't Moriarty usually cleverer than this? I could have figured that out in five minutes on the Internet."

Sherlock stared out the window.

"This isn't supposed to be impossible to solve. It's a warning. But for what…" He trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose.

John looked at his friend carefully. The pale detective's face was drawn even as his eyes continued to burn with a fire that John was afraid would consume him. He had never seen Sherlock like this. It normally would have taken Sherlock less than five minutes to solve all of this, but it was as if a wrench was thrown into the gears of his brain. But the only thing that John could see was different, the only possible wrench, was Molly herself.

Without saying another word, they sped west, heading towards Somerset.

xxx

About two hours later, they pulled onto the road that lead up to the manor. Getting out of the car, they both crept toward the gate, John with a firm hold on his gun. A piece of paper fluttered from the iron bars of the entrance, and Sherlock snatched it from where it was wedged between two bars and read it out loud.

"John Watson and Sherlock Holmes only. If anyone else comes onto the property, Miss Hooper dies."

Sherlock stared at the paper before crumpling it in his fist and going through the gate. John ran after him, hissing

"You can't just go in there! We need a plan!"

Sherlock's reply was like ice.

"Unlike you, I can think of plans while moving."

John shook his head and they both crept up to the manor. The front door was cracked open and the two men positioned themselves on either side of it. With a nod from John, both men burst through the door. John was sweeping the room when a voice floated up from an armchair with its back to the door.

"So nice of you to join me."

John swung around to face Moriarty, who was now lazily leaning against the armchair. Sneaking a glance at Sherlock, John was stunned to see that the consulting detective appeared almost as relaxed as Moriarty as he replied,

"We wouldn't want to miss the exclusive party you seem to have prepared for us."

"Ah, so you got the note? So glad I won't have to kill Molly. She'll appreciate it too."

A throb in Sherlock's forehead revealed the only signs of emotion as he coolly asked,

"Ah, yes, is she around? There are so few halfway competent pathologists in London, it would seem a pity to lose her."

Moriarty smirked.

"You don't seem to take very good care of your friends, Sherlock, always misplacing them. You'll have to be careful, next time she might end up much worse off."

John interrupted.

"Tell us where Molly is, you bastard, or I swear to God!"

Moriarty turned to him.

"Find her yourself."

With those words a series of explosions went off around the house. Sherlock and John dove for cover under the grand piano in the front hall. In the chaos and confusion, Moriarty disappeared, and John's heart stopped as he heard a scream from upstairs.

"Molly!"

But Sherlock was already dashing up the stairs. Pitching blindly through smoke and rubble, for Moriarty had set off what seemed to be a dozen bombs throughout the house, the detective ran towards where he had heard the scream. He rounded a corner and saw Molly through the remnants of what had been an elegant doorway. She was pressed into a corner of the room, staring wide eyed at an enormous chunk of the roof that had fallen through to the middle of the room. She was obviously in shock.

Sherlock called out urgently, "Molly, come here! We have to get out!"

She turned towards him, her eyes huge, but the sight of him seemed to wake her and she stumbled stiffly toward her. He grabbed her arm and hauled her downstairs. John was standing in the entryway, cursing. All three of them ran outside onto the lawn.

"Sherlock, you stay with Molly. I'm going to see if the bastard's still alive. If he is, I just might remedy that. Lestrade should be here any minute."

Sherlock gave a curt nod and John took off.

Molly was standing barefoot in the grass, shivering despite the warmness of the summer day. She coughed, expelling the smoke of the explosions from her lungs, and quaked even harder. Though she had managed to escape the bombs with just scrapes, the bruises she had sustained from the fight streaked the skin around her eye blue and green and yellow, and her shirt was torn at the shoulder.

Sherlock took off the coat he was wearing and draped it around her shoulders. Gently, he touched the bruise around her eye with the pad of his thumb as furrows appeared on his forehead. When she winced his jaw tightened. Dropping his hand, he looked at her and said,

"You're safe now."

Molly, to her embarrassment, burst into tears at this. It had been all too much, and she found herself leaning into him, seeking any kind of warmth or human contact that she could find. She felt him stiffen and then relax slightly, and as she sobbed into his shirt, one of his hands patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. They stood like this for a long minute.

She broke away from him as she heard the sound of police sirens approaching. She stared at the flashing lights, almost hypnotized, as four or five squad cars pulled up onto the lawn.

She didn't notice that Sherlock was watching her closely, as if seeing her for the first time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

A few hours later, Molly was sitting on the couch in her flat, wrapped in a blanket and clutching a mug of hot tea. The police had just left after getting her statement, and Lestrade had patted her sympathetically on the shoulder and told her,

"We'll get him, don't worry."

Moriarty had, of course, escaped. Three black cars with tinted windows had been spotted tearing out of the grounds of the manor moments after the explosion, and so it seemed that Moriarty and whatever other cohorts had been in the building had gotten away. Molly could only testify to the existence of the one guard she had fought with, but Lestrade and the other police officers had been certain that there had been others, and the other footsteps that Molly had heard in her flight corroborated this conclusion. But now all the official business was over and done with, and for the first time since Moriarty had appeared at her lab, Molly could finally relax. Sherlock and John had stayed behind after the rest had left.

John sat down beside Molly, a concerned look on her face.

"Molly, are you sure you'll be alright here? Do you want to stay a friend's house, or maybe a relative's?"

Molly shook her head.

"No, thank you, I will be alright. I've got Toby here to guard me." She indicated, with a shaky laugh, the feline who was staring balefully at Sherlock. But there was an edge of doubt in her voice. She didn't want to think about the night ahead, sure that every shadow would look like Moriarty approaching.

Sherlock turned from inspecting Molly's bookshelves and gave an exasperated sigh.

"Don't be ridiculous. You're still in shock, and it will take at least a day for you to recover. Mrs. Hudson has an apartment upstairs without a tenant at the moment. I mean honestly, look at you, if Moriarty were to come back…" He trailed off, but his arched eyebrow said everything that he hadn't.

Molly blanched. John shot Sherlock a dirty look and then turned back to Molly.

"Sherlock's right, Molly. Come stay at Baker Street, at least for tonight. Mrs. Hudson would be happy to set you up in the empty flat, and it would do you a world of good, I think. What do you say?"

Molly looked from John's earnest, entreating to face, to Sherlock, who, having said his part, was staring again at her books. Toby, having decided that Sherlock was a decent human, was now rubbing against the hem of the detective's trousers. Molly smiled at the tufts of fur that now clung to trouser legs, and turned back to John. She nodded.

"Okay, I'll come. That sounds very nice. Thank you."

John smiled.

"It's the least we can do."

xxx

Mrs. Hudson was, as John had said, happy to let Molly stay in the apartment above. Clucking over Molly's bruises and scrapes, she sent Sherlock to get her first aid kit and spent a good twenty minutes applying bandages and healing salves to Molly's face, neck, and shoulders. Molly tried to protest, saying that Mrs. Hudson needn't trouble herself, but Mrs. Hudson waved away her protests, saying,

"I am just glad that you are alright. The boys are both glad to have you back safely, I can tell you that much. John looks as if a weight's been lifted off of him and Sherlock…well, Sherlock seems almost relaxed. Almost happy, and for once not because he's found another head to store in my refrigerator." She shook her head and smiled fondly.

Molly and Mrs. Hudson were sitting in the John and Sherlock's kitchen, while the two men were in the sitting room discussing (arguing) about what to do next about Moriarty. Molly didn't notice much different about the two, but she trusted Mrs. Hudson's judgment.

After applying one last bandage, Mrs. Hudson patted Molly on the cheek and said,

"There, done. Nothing serious, everything should be healed up in the next few days."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Not a problem at all. Now, here's the key to the flat, and if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask!"

With that, Mrs. Hudson said good night to the three of them and went downstairs, the echoes of her slippered footsteps fading away. Molly walked into the sitting room where John and Sherlock had ceased bantering for the moment. John looked at her and cleared his throat.

"Molly, I realized something when you sitting with Mrs. Hudson. We didn't give you a chance to change into new clothes and I'm sure you'd want something more than _that_" he indicated the ragged clothes that still smelled of smoke that Molly was wearing, "to..erm …sleep in, so I'd be happy to lend you something…" He trailed off.

Molly smiled, trying to put the now-red John at ease.

"That would be lovely, John, thank you. I hadn't thought of that, but yes, that would be nice."

"Right. Er. Hold on." John went into his room and his voice floated out as he dug frantically through his drawers. "I, uh, haven't done laundry in a while, hang on…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"For God's sake, John, if it's going to be this much of a production…" He strode into his own room and returned in seconds with a neatly folded pair of cotton, navy blue pajamas. He held them out to Molly, saying,

"Do try not to tear them."

Molly reached out and took them, uncertain.

"Um, thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned to the window, impatient.

"Please, don't mention it."

John watched this entire scene for the doorway of his bedroom, intrigued for a reason he couldn't quite put his finger on. He coughed and said to Molly,

"Well, we won't keep you any longer, I'm sure you're exhausted. Just come find me if you need anything."

"Thank you, John. Thanks to both of you. I don't know what I would have done without you."

John shrugged modestly, but Sherlock didn't even acknowledge the statement. After standing uncertainly for a second or two, Molly walked out of the apartment and up the stairs. Opening the door with the keys that Mrs. Hudson had given her, she stumbled into the apartment and into the bedroom. Waves of exhaustion hit her and she barely had time to change into the pajamas Sherlock had lent her before she collapsed on the bed, already half asleep.

But before she dropped completely into the realm of dreams, she unconsciously brought the cuff of one of the pajama's sleeves to her nose. It smelled like winter, her sleep-addled brain decided, winter and mystery. And then she knew no more.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **Thank you for all the great reviews! Sorry that this chapter took a while to get posted, I was on vacation for a while. Hope you continue to enjoy!

Upon waking twelve hours or so later, Molly was groggily disoriented, peering around for any kind of clue as to where she was. Gradually, the features of the room came into focus – the end of the bed where she lay wrapped up in the comforter, a no-nonsense chest of drawers that could have dated from World War II, and a pair of white linen curtains that were blowing lazily in the afternoon spring breeze wafting in from outside. For the second time in as many days, Molly found herself trying to piece together the events of the day before. After she felt as though she'd remembered everything, she swung her feet around and prepared to go ask John if there was anything edible in his apartment.

She stopped as she felt the excessive material of the men's pajamas pool around her ankles and feet. At the sight of the borrowed clothing, an emotion she couldn't quite identify flared through her veins. In an instant, it was gone, leaving no trace, but if reminded her oddly of the time when she had fallen through the rotting boards of her grandmother's attic to the floor below – it was the same sense of the world tilting and, upon slamming into the ground, an unavoidable affirmation of _life_.

The sound of her stomach growling snapped her out of her reveries and she went barefoot down the stairs, both hoping and dreading that Sherlock would be in the apartment below. To her disappointment (and relief), it was a rumpled-looking John who answered the door, looking as if he too had just emerged from bed. He invited her in, apologizing for the mess (Sherlock had apparently decided that last night was an ideal time to practice wielding his newly-acquired katana, and one of Mrs. Hudson's pillows seemed to have borne the brunt of the vicious attacks). John made coffee for both of them. Noticing that Molly was attempting to look discreetly around for Sherlock, John signed to himself and informed her that the detective was out pursuing some leads on a new case.

Trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice, Molly asked John about his plans for the day, and they ended up slipping into conversation. After spending so much time pining after his more reticent partner, Molly had never appreciated how easy John was to talk to and how good of a listener he was. She ended up saying more than she had meant to, telling John about her time in captivity with Moriarty. She hadn't realized how serious the conversation had gotten until at one point her voice cracked and she could feel the warm trail of several unbidden tears slip down her cheeks. John's normally sympathetic face looked stricken at this turn of events and he fumbled around in the cupboards looking for a box of tissues, giving Molly the opportunity to wipe away the tears. John sat back down and pushed the box of tissues towards Molly.

"It's a terrible thing that you've been through, but I want you to know that nothing like that will ever happen again. You have my word and I'm bloo—I am sure you have Sherlock's as well. I've never seen him like he was yesterday. You're safe now, I promise."

John's words reassured her a little bit, but Molly felt uneasy at the thought of anything like that ever happening again. She thanked him, while at the same time making a mental note to brush up on her martial arts skills. At that moment, her stomach growled again and John smiled.

"Fancy some bacon and eggs? I can make us some before I run you back over to your flat."

A flash of alarm must have crossed Molly's face at the mention of her flat because John quickly tried to backtrack, assuring her that she was welcome to stay at Baker Street for as long as she wanted, he had just thought she would be more comfortable at her own place, etc. etc. She hadn't realized how scared she still was until the possibility of being alone had been raised.

Don't be ridiculous, she scolded herself silently. You're a grown woman for God's sake, surely you can handle being by yourself in your own flat. She looked up and saw that John was watching her carefully, as if trying to assess what was going on in that fevered brain of hers. Blushing slightly she said,

"No, no, I want to go back, get my life back to normal…"

Even to her the pitch of her voice didn't sound in the least bit confident, but mercifully John didn't press the issue. She could sense that he, too, wanted everything to go back to how it had been before.

At that moment, Sherlock strode the front door of the apartment, carrying what appeared to be a narwhal tusk and an extremely irritated-looking gerbil. Noticing John and Molly sitting at the kitchen table, he frowned slightly.

"What are you two doing just sitting about? Fluffykins here" he held up the hand holding the fuzzy creature, "is refusing to yield evidence. Where is my interrogation kit?"

"What on earth…?!" John burst out in bewilderment.

"I'm telling you, this animal's hiding something! Where's my interrogation kit?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock, you can't interrogate a gerbil. Give him to me…OUCH!"

Fluffykins, having decided that the safest option at this point was retreat, had bitten John's finger and, in the ensuing chaos, had escaped under the sofa where he now crouched, growling slightly.

In spite of everything that had happened to her in the last few days, Molly had to smile. Normal, she thought as she listened to John berating Sherlock, was not an option at 221 Baker Street. But it felt right, and if she was honest, it was this crazy rightness that she was going to miss the most.

Oh well, she thought as she went to go change and pack up her things, it was good while it lasted.


	8. Chapter 8

On the ride back to her flat, Molly envisioned the stir-fry she would make for dinner, her reunion with Toby and the settling-back into a routine that, while certainly not as exciting as life at Baker Street, was infinitely more suited to her, Molly Hooper.

These visions lasted until the moment she opened the door, John and Sherlock behind her (John had insisted on accompanying her, and after several not-so-subtle elbowings from John, Sherlock had condescended to accompany them). Molly froze in the doorway as the view of her flat became clear, and there was a thud from behind her as her suitcase slipped out of John's hands. Nobody moved.

The word "destruction" seemed an understatement to describe what had transpired in the room. Every possession Molly owned seemed to be strewn about the floor at random, and piles of feathers lay where they had been ripped out of cushions on the sofa. The curtains had been torn down and the glass from various framed photographs had been smashed. All of her books lay ripped from the shelves while the drawers from the kitchen stood upended in the middle of the living room. The stillness in the room belied the recent chaos, making the scene in the apartment seem like the eerie aftermath of a battle.

John was the first one of them to react.

"Don't move, Molly! I'm going to ring the police, just…don't move!" With that, he dashed out of the room.

But Molly, as if propelled by a force beyond her control, walked slowly into the wreckage, the broken glass crunching quietly under her feet. She drifted numbly toward the opposite wall, where an ornate dagger protruded from the wall. Pinned by the blade to the wall was a note, and Molly unthinkingly reached to pull the dagger free.

A hand snaked out and grabbed her outstretched arm. Startled, she looked down and saw that it was Sherlock's hand stopping her. She looked up at him and saw that his face was closed. He was staring at the dagger and note without a trace of visible emotion. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a latex glove, which he snapped onto his hand before reaching to pull the dagger out of the wall. There was an odd jangling sound as something that had been pinned between the note and the wall fell to the floor. Curious, Molly stooped to the ground to see what had fallen.

It was Toby's cat collar.

Wordlessly, Molly reached for it. The collar was green, which Molly had thought looked striking against the coat of her calico cat.

John hurried into the room.

"I talked to Lestrade, he'll be here in ten minutes, and…what is that, Sherlock?"

Molly had forgotten about the note. Sherlock looked up and said flatly,

"A note. Or, more accurately, a threat."

He held out the sheet of paper to John, who read it out loud in a shocked voice.

_ My dearest Sherlock,_

_I hope that you keep a better eye on your pets than Molly does hers. I would hate for anything to happen to our lovely miss._

_ -Jim_

xxx

For the second time that week, Molly found herself giving statements to the police. John and Sherlock stood grim-faced throughout the entire ordeal, and when it was done, John touched Molly's arm.

"Listen, I talked to Mrs. Hudson and she said she would be happy to have you stay for a while longer in the flat upstairs if you'd like. It would…make us feel better if you were somewhere where we knew you were safe. No one knows how Moriarty managed to get in, so we think it would be for the best."

Molly swallowed and nodded.

xxx

An hour later Molly was back at Baker Street, though thoroughly more subdued than she had been last time she was there. She was still clutching Toby's collar. John stood beside her, looking pained.

"Look, Molly, he probably just ran away, cats are good at sensing danger like that. He's probably just hiding."

"For God's sake, John" snapped Sherlock from the other side of the room. "The cat's dead. I know it, you know it, _she _knows it, there's no point in pretending otherwise."

"Sherlock!"

"What? She can get another one, there's a pet shop on every corner. Now do be quiet, I'm trying to figure out how Moriarty managed to get in without anyone seeing or hearing anything."

John opened his mouth to respond, but Molly beat him to it. Eyes blazing, she strode over to the chair where Sherlock was staring out of the window. Startled, the detective looked up to see Molly glaring down at him. Stress and uncontained emotions seemed to be rolling off of Molly in waves; the air almost crackled with the energy of it.

"Listen, Sherlock, I am tired and I am hungry and I am only going to say this once. His name is Toby. Toby. I know you've got your head stuffed full of facts so I'm sure that adding this little one won't take up too much room. I know that you think you can go through your entire life pretending not to care about anyone, even the people who care about you, but I don't work like that. I care about other creatures, I love them, and I would thank you not to act as if they are replaceable!"

Molly's voice cracked on that last word, and the tirade, which had started out in blind fury, dissolved into pent-up tears, and Molly stood there trying to look strong as the tears rolled down her face.

Sherlock's face displayed an emotion that John had never seen there before – utter bewilderment. That Sherlock had not intended for his words to be taken the way they did was obvious, and John had to commend Sherlock on this point at least. Since the Christmas party when Sherlock had insulted Molly, John had never heard him say a word against her. Now Sherlock seemed utterly helpless at the sight of the weeping woman in front of him. A minute passed, then two, and Sherlock got awkwardly to his feet.

"I am truly sorry to be in the habit of having to ask your forgiveness, Molly Hooper. It will not happen again," Sherlock said in a voice that John had only heard him use with Molly.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed one of Molly's tear-stained cheeks before leaving the room without another word.

xxx

That night, as Molly lay sleepless in her bed in the flat at Baker Street, there came a soft knock at the bedroom door. Molly sat up, blood pounding in her ears. Was Moriarty back? Grabbing the nearest solid object (the book on her nightstand), she crept to the door and listened for any sound of movement. There was no noise from outside, so she cautiously opened the door. Nothing stirred in the pitch dark outside, and Molly had almost convinced herself that she'd made the whole thing up when suddenly:

"Meow."

Molly looked down. Toby was crouched in a basket on the doorstep, purring contentedly at the sight of her. Overjoyed, Molly pulled him into her arms and retreated into the apartment, kissing the top of his furry head.

xxx

When John walked into the kitchen the next morning, he found Sherlock applying antiseptic to several angry red scratches on his hand.

"Fluffykins not taking too kindly to his interrogation, I guess?" asked John, gesturing at Sherlock's wounds. Sherlock didn't reply.

"What time did you get in, anyway? Three?"

"Four."

"Following a lead?"

"Something like that."

Accepting that he wasn't going to get anything of substance out of Sherlock, John grabbed his keys and went out to get the morning paper. Sherlock watched him leave before turning to his hand.

"Ungrateful cat," Sherlock said softly, "I find you and you repay me like this?"


End file.
